Friday 21 October 2016

That Tired Spot

A tiny spot
Unseen by most,
Can't wash, don't fade, won't be cast out.

An itch
Beyond reach of tired hands
From sore hearts that worry, exhausted by feeling.

A tiny spot willed away
In spite, despite, a never ending pain.
Too long every day continuing the fight
In vain. In hope for relief to surely come.

A tiny spot
That grows in the night
In crowds of empty thoughts, moments ticking by.
It’s shadow firmly cast on tomorrow’s every promise
As tomorrow’s shadow creeps firmly across the floor.

A tiny spot
Distracted by ambition,
Poked by desire; sunshine and a smile.
Smoothed by beauty, with light and love,
Muffled in friendship: understanding and true.
Calmed by fire, in peace, in rage; suffocated with hatred
And emptiness and wine. And envy and failure and longing and rain and sorrow and blood
And tears that tear at the fabric of everything there 
                                                                                -   but still. Nothing, will ever touch 

                                                                                                           The tired spot.